Saturday, 1 June 2013

The coffee has gotten so bitter. First at the library - where I thought it might have been tainted with cleaning fluid, but didn't complain, just drank it down, with each drink more secure in my suspicion. Then, to a lesser degree, at my weekend spot, where I was only eighty-five percent certain that it was the same wholly unappetizing taste, or, rather, eighty-five percent as unappetizing as that shit in the library periodical reading room (stain the newspapers and magazines all you want).

Come to think of it, I was probably more like fifteen percent unsure if the taste was the same. The bitter taste. Though, I must say in fairness to bitterness, I honesty don't know if bitter is the right description. I don't know what bitter is, or I am only fifteen percent sure I have any idea what bitter, as a taste, really tastes like. Now there's this cup I've got in front of me now, or that I've just finished, about which I didn't immediately taste anything untoward - untoward being a description I am ninety percent sure is accurate, and completely secure that "untord" is one proper pronunciation thereof, even though I pronounce it the way it looks.

This coffee didn't look like it tasted, that is, I didn't have any notion it would, or I had not yet begun to suspect a general taste-tainted era to've descended upon me. As I was saying, I didn't taste anything reminiscent to any degree of that cup in the periodical room until about halfway through this one. It was a large cup. All three cups in question were large, in fact.

I say this - not about the large cups but about the not suspecting/tasting anything reminiscent of the previous shock - to rule out my having imagined the taste out of wariness, or as soon as I reminded myself of it. Though it could be that an entirely unrelated taste common to coffee is triggering a response in my nervous system...

My thoughts are interrupted by the following scene:
A small girl of no more than four or five, who's near the edge of this rather broad corner a few meters away from my table at this sidewalk café, stands poised with her knees slightly bent, at least with her eyes, for she's actually standing up straight. One can recognize, however - much like her mother recognized at that very moment while she was conversing with acquaintances a few meters farther away on the other side of this same broad corner - how the daughter's eyes betray her intention such that it's as if she is poised with her knees already bent, readying herself to leap up and into the puddle before her, with the promise of splashing water in every direction.

"Lily, nicht." A simple period. No point of exclamation. The girl looks up, pauses for the slightest instant, and runs around the puddle towards her mother.

_____

I might've inadvertently created the background for this when the bucket of paint I was carrying leapt from my bike-rack and coated the sidewalk below. I then ran away. Very slowly.
My accidents are your canvas!

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